


The Highest Function of Pomegranate

by sarken



Category: Real News RPF
Genre: FNFF OT, Gen, Grenadine, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:32:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarken/pseuds/sarken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith's bottle of grenadine is in sorry shape when Rachel finds it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Highest Function of Pomegranate

Rachel got her hopes up when Keith said, yes, he had grenadine, and pointed her toward the refrigerator. Now she's not sure if he was lying, didn't know what grenadine was, or just meant he had a bottle of Pom shoved in the back that may have aged itself into a syrup. Whatever the case, she hasn't found the grenadine, and she refuses to drink tequila and orange juice without grenadine. Rachel has rules, many of which she bends quite regularly for Keith, but she is going to stand her ground on this: if Keith doesn't have grenadine, they're just going to have to do shots of this cheap tequila.

She is looking for a lime in the produce bin when she finds the grenadine. It's in the back corner of the third shelf, wedged behind a bottle of Tabasco and two bottles of non-alcoholic beer. She pushes the pepper sauce aside and grabs the beer -- she's pouring it down the drain as soon as she gets up from the floor -- before reaching back for the grenadine.

It's stuck to the shelf, and that almost makes her reconsider her views on tequila and orange juice. Almost, but not quite, and she gives it a fierce yank that frees the bottle and sends her toppling back onto her ass with a victorious, but undignified, _oomph_ , and she repeats the noise as she gets to her feet, wondering when, exactly, her knees started to crack and pop. She's thirty-seven for six more days. She is too young for this crap.

The beer goes down the drain with the faucet running, and Rachel murmurs an apology to the sink as she rinses its basin, sorry for making it swallow something so vile. She has a feeling it will be getting some of Keith's tequila sunrise later, but she doesn't think ten-dollar tequila makes a very good chaser for non-alcoholic beer. It might be better off sticking to Drano.

She reaches for Keith's definition of grenadine, which is a bottle of Rose's red corn syrup, and she isn't surprised at all when her thumb ends up in a sticky spot. She'll use the corn syrup and she'll drink a sunrise after midnight, but she draws the line at cleaning Keith's refrigerator or the containers inside it, so she sucks it up and tries to twist the metal cap off the bottle.

It doesn't budge, but it makes the skin of her palm sting and burn, and she tries to shake the pain out of her hand before taking a second shot at opening the bottle, this time with the hem of her T-shirt between the cap and her hand. It doesn't surprise her, really, that the syrup has crystallized around the brim, sealing the bottle shut, but it does annoy her, and she glares at the bottle as she sucks the sweet red stuff from her thumb.

"Keith," she says, his name muffled by her finger in her mouth, "would you get in here a sec?"

He doesn't say anything, but he wanders in from the living room, hands in his pockets and uncertainty on his face. Rachel doesn't think he spends much time in his own kitchen; she knows what that expression feels like from the other side.

Grenadine in hand, Rachel saunters up to Keith, stepping well into his personal space. She places her hand, the one with the sticky faux-pomegranate syrup on the thumb, on the chest of his white shirt, and looks up at him through fluttering lashes. She is pretty sure his heart has stopped beating beneath her palm, and her tongue darts out to moisten her lips.

"Keith," she says again, and, if anyone ever asks, she'll swear her breathy tone was intentional, "you big, strong bear of a man, open this for me." She all but shoves the bottle in his face, but he doesn't even blink in recognition.

"Keith."

He reaches up and scratches his ear. "Uh, could you repeat the question?"

"It was more of a request."

"Well, whatever it was, could you repeat the first part?"

Rachel can feel her facial muscles betraying her, and she fights hard to hide a smirk. "Keith."

"The part after that."

He sounds remarkably patient, at least by Keith standards, and Rachel trails her fingernail along the placket of his shirt as she says, "You big, strong bear of a man, o--"

"Stop." Keith presses a finger against her lips a little too harshly, and Rachel is pretty sure the result is an extremely unflattering fish-lipped expression, and her certainty only increases when Keith's touch lightens. "The law says I get thirty seconds to fantasize before you finish that thought."

Rachel wonders exactly what law that is, if it's some universal rule men made up and agreed upon, or if it's something that only exists in Keith's head, but she rolls her eyes and lets him have his thirty seconds of fun while she plays with the loose string sticking out from one of his buttons.

"Okay," he says, squaring his shoulders. There's a glint in his eye. "Though I should probably tell you, you look amazing wh--"

"Keith." She glares at him over the top of her glasses, a line of blue slicing across her vision.

Keith sighs and reaches for the grenadine, but he stops just short of taking it from her hand. "Are you absolutely sure you want to finish that thought with 'open this for me'? Because, although it's admittedly been a while since I last heard that tone, I believe it's generally reserved for things more 'kiss me' in nature, and I'm willing to give you a do-over on this."

Rachel shakes her head. "Open this for me," she says, pressing the bottle more firmly into his hand, "and then maybe, after the tequila, we'll see how things go. Might get wild and ask you to get down on your knees...and clean your damn refrigerator."


End file.
